


From Eden

by Pochri



Series: Correspondence (The smell of ink) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Other, Sad Pining, There isn't much to this, i love varric, i'm feeling sad so you get the sad, its kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pochri/pseuds/Pochri
Summary: So many wasted pages and ink, color staining his fingers, unsure of his own feelings. What kind of a man was he?
Relationships: Inquisitor/Varric Tethras, Varric Tethras/Reader
Series: Correspondence (The smell of ink) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906192
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	From Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinOfCats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinOfCats/gifts).



> For you, bitch. Enjoy your sad dwarf man. <3

1

_ “Youare that sweet paradise, the soft grass underfoot and the warmth of the sun, the sweet smell of ripe fruit, the sharp tang of lemon, the burn of fire and everything in between. You arethe innocence that whisks me away, the magic that lights the lights in Tevinter, the chivalrous knight that comes to my defense. You are the intoxicating feeling of love, that twists sharp, and deep in between my ribs, you are the thing keeping me awake every night, listening to the fire that seemed to emanate your warmth - _ _”_ His quill sharply stopped, his fingers trembling, ink bleeding into the paper as he kept it there, wondering once again what he was doing, the lingering ache of his own heart stopping him in his own tracks. Oh Maker, he had done it now. The sharp, twisting pain dug in once again, silence weighing heavily on him as he leaned over the ruined paper.    
  
It was him and the fireplace once again, the sharp crack and pops filling the silence that weighed heavily on him. It was a familiar comfort, something he couldn't quite explain, but it soothed the twisting, gnawing guilt in his stomach. What kind of a man was he? To sit here over his discarded page, quill clutched in hand and ink staining his fingers, looking over words he had written in longing, letters he so wished to give away but the fear of his own imagined rejection kept him still. And Bianca, how could he do it to her? Varric set down his quill, letting his head fall back, taking a slow breath. It was him and the fireplace, late at night, and he wondered if it would ever be him, and someone else, and the fireplace. It was a convoluted thought, and he knew deep down, he deserved none of it.   
  
His worn hands clutched the papers, standing over the fire as he contemplated his own feelings, wondering how much paper he was going to waste doing this  over and over again. But he paused, licking his lips as he carefully  reconsidered, before  he forced himself back to his desk, setting the paper down, nimble fingers grasping another sheet, setting it down with some odd reverence.  To Varric, it was obvious, there was no point in chasing Bianca anymore, following her in a dance that was far too cold and clumsy and out of tune. His tongue tastes of bile, and for a moment, Varric felt as if he was a new man, the heavy weight upon his shoulders lifting and giving way. There were no words to describe the feeling, but it was as if new life had been breathed into him. And, in that fleeting moment of flying free, he knew it didn't quite matter if they truly did reject him. Because he had found his own, new found freedom in _letting go_.    
  
_ “You are the warm feeling that blooms in my chest and makes everything impossible, you’re the sharp inhale of air and the glorious feeling of love, and the quiet lullaby that we all carry with us. You are the one who reminds me all is not lost, the  deep-rooted hope I carry, the determination to do this task we’ve all been burdened with. You are the garden, and I am the flower you hold tenderly in your soil.” _ __   
  
Varric let it dry, before carefully smoothing it down, tucking it neatly into an envelope, and signing their name, hesitating before he carefully leaves a small hint of who it could be from, terror gripping at him before he silently gets up.   
  
And, with a fluttering heart, he leaves it upon their desk.


End file.
